


love me baby (if it takes you all night long)

by blanchtt



Category: Kyss Mig, With Every Heartbeat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 12:17:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13903857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: She had lingered in little cafes over long breakfasts, lost herself in museums both small and sprawling, alone, immersing herself in the tiny type print of the label next to the painting or trying to read the ingredients on the back of things in Catalan, as if by ignoring her watch, her memories, her life, she could ignore the idea of time itself.





	love me baby (if it takes you all night long)

 

 

 

 

 

 

She has imagined she would sulk in Barcelona for a bit, get a tan, and go back to Stockholm ready to face the mess she's made of her life: no girlfriend, no place to stay, and a cheater and a homewrecker on top of it all.

 

She had lingered in little cafes over long breakfasts, lost herself in museums both small and sprawling, alone, immersing herself in the tiny type print of the label next to the painting or trying to read the ingredients on the back of things in Catalan, as if by ignoring her watch, her memories, her life, she could ignore the idea of time itself.

 

But now, Mia stretched out on the towel beside her, napping, Frida swallows, and finds the idea of time no longer as daunting. Time, in fact, makes a fool of her, and she stays her hand from reaching out, from touching the sun-freckled edge of her shoulder, from caressing the curve of her thigh, because this is neither the time nor place.

 

Not yet the peak of summer, the beach is still comfortably crowded, the sand warm and the afternoon sun warmer, and instead Frida picks up her book, finds her line again, and tries once more to focus.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Together, later, alone in her small hotel room the perfect size now for two, she can trace her hand down the curve of Mia’s stomach, can kiss her neck and hook her finger under the taut string of her bikini and slip it off, and realize how easy it is to miss dinner when it’s no longer the sole thing she’s been looking forward to all day.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

She had stored her things at her mother’s place before leaving, her old apartment having been put up for lease. It had been hers and Elin’s, and it is not, Frida knows, an acceptable place to start a new home, with or without Mia.

 

Their new apartment is small and rather uninspiring for an architect, Frida thinks, but Mia looks happy enough.

 

Mia surveys the still-empty living room, left hand on her hip, mouth pursed and brows creased in thought, and Frida watches, the box of books in front of her she’s supposed to be unpacking going unnoticed. How can she attend to that when Mia’s dark hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, slack after a day spent moving, or the late summer sun finds its way in weakly through the living room windows, stomach aflutter with butterflies at the thought that this is her life now.

 

But, alas, her tongue gets the better of her.

 

(It always does.)

 

“I smell something burning,” she can’t resist saying, breaking the silence, and Mia turns around, looking surprised before laughing.

 

“I thought we could put the frame over the mantle,” Mia suggests, and Friday smiles, nods, looks back down in the box and keeps unpacking. Books, slim and sleek, from Mia’s home, work, all the places she’s left to start anew.

 

“Wherever you want. You’ve got the eye for design.”

 

And so the old framed sketch of Stockholm's streets goes up, the dark brown frame lovely against a pale wall, alongside a single flowering orchid that Lasse had given them as a housewarming gift.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

It is a pleasure to get to know the Mia she had initially only caught glimpses of.

 

The stress has vanished almost visibly, washing away with time and touch and leaving a Mia who smiles more easily, who moves more languidly—though just barely, given her nature, and that is why Frida loves her—and who takes her hand one evening as they’re out, queued up on the sidewalk and waiting to get in out of the cold, to nab a seat at a restaurant.

 

She is so lucky, Friday thinks, to know this Mia. Her Mia, who laughs over dinner with her as they eat at her mother’s one night, discussing the plans for the addition that never got off the ground; her Mia, who goes out and finds a shop and starts a small firm, who enlists Oscar in helping her at times but who needs no business partner, only her own space; her Mia, who pulls her closer in bed on lazy Sundays, who makes love to her before rising and urging her up too in time for brunch.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Not yet spring, she sits curled on the end of the couch, knees drawn up to her chest, a notebook balanced on the back of the couch as she writes, warm in her overlarge sweater. She’s been at this just long enough for the lesson plans to come easily—remembering, understanding, applying, analyzing, evaluating, and creating. The taxonomy is less an uphill battle, hacking her way up every step, and now more a familiar, ambling route.

 

After some time, Mia wanders in, passing by, and Frida looks up, raises her pen to chew on the end of it as Mia slips her own sketchbook off the nearby desk, sits down on the opposite end of the couch, and smiles before getting to work.

 

Frida looks back down, almost finished with the week, and takes her pen out of her mouth. She hears Mia in the silence more than she sees her—the subtle creak as she settles and finds a comfortable position, the soft fabric sound of her pillows being shifted, of Mia stretching her legs. And Frida lets out an amused breath as Mia nudges her ankle.

 

They sit, legs entwined, working until the fleeting afternoon light leaves the room too dark to work in.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

She follows them because it is Saturday and she has nothing else to do.

 

“Is this what you do for work?” Frida teases, lagging behind Mia and Oscar, and Oscar laughs loudly as if agreeing. Mia stops in the middle of the sidewalk, purses her lips, arms crossed over her chest, and Frida tries not to laugh. It’s hardly an intimidating sight.

 

“No,” Mia says, slowly and pointedly. “This is for fun.”

 

Frida does her best to keep a poker face, but the idea of Mia walking around Stockholm looking at the nicest houses is just so very _Mia_ that Frida knows she’s smiling. Luckily, Oscar interrupts.

 

“And so she can steal architectural ideas,” he jokes, snapping a photo of a home with his fancy camera. He turns on them just as quickly, and before they can protest Frida hears the shutter click before Oscar dodges out of their way and hurries up the sidewalk.

 

“It’s to become _inspired_ by! Not steal,” Mia reiterates, and Frida holds out her arm, feels Mia settle against her side as they fall in step, following Oscar. “I’d run a lousy firm if I got caught stealing left and right.”

 

Frida hums an agreement, and slips her hand into the back pocket of Mia’s jeans.

 

She’s not rebuffed, and walking on clouds, Frida remembers nothing of the walk except that.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

They stay at her mother’s for midsummer’s day—a holiday as well as a family celebration, the addition to the house Mia engineered finally complete. Her mother is more often than not with Lasse, and so her country home turns slowly into a place to vacation, far from abandoned.

 

Frida peers into the room on her way to the guest bedroom, finds the study a mix of her mother and Lasse’s taste, and agrees that the glass veranda, unobstructed by blinds or curtains, does allow a magnificent view of the forest, the lake, the barest glimpse of other homes far, far off in the distance.

 

After dinner, they say their goodnights, and she follows Mia to the study.

 

It’s not set up as a guest bedroom, and the only place to lie down is in fact the great big leather sofa. From experience, not a comfortable alternative.

 

They bring in the bedding from the guest bedroom and set up on the floor.

 

Darkness, in the country, is as total as being plunged in a sea of ink. The moon, half-full, allows Frida to turn over, to see the curve of Mia’s face, just barely, as they kiss.

 

In the vast, novel space of the study, there is room to shed clothing, to slip between thighs, to hold on together, and to move.

 

Frida comes in a gasping rush of warmth, Mia not far behind.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

The summer sun rises early, and Frida squints against the growing light, reaches out blindly, and drags the covers over her head, trying to hang on to the last few moments of sleep, Mia groaning besides her at the movement. The lack of curtains for the study was perhaps not the best design idea.

 

From the kitchen not far away, the beep of the coffee machine goes off, and admitting that sleep is no longer possible, Frida lets out a deep breath, opens an eye and finds Mia sweeping her own hair out of her face groggily.

 

"I prefer the guest bedroom," Mia grumbles.

 

"That's not what you said last night," Frida says, unable to keep the smile off her face, and she dodges a pillow from Mia.

 

With a triumphant kiss to Mia’s cheek, Frida gets up and heads to the bathroom to run the shower. Tomorrow there is work and school to go back to, and so they set out to enjoy the day.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
